


The Selected

by LupusScintilla (inkandblade), Rubyredhoodling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Arranged Pairing, Blood, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, But Everyone is Willing, First Time, I do not consent to those under the age of majority viewing my explicit works, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Mentions Canonical Deaths, Rituals, Some description of animal sacrifice/hunt, Sterek Reverse Bang, Sterek Reverse Bang 2018, The Nemeton - Freeform, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandblade/pseuds/LupusScintilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/pseuds/Rubyredhoodling
Summary: Deaton sat forward again with a little difficulty. His face, even through the pain, said that he knew what Stiles was thinking.“You would have been the one chosen anyway, Stiles. Allison was not strong enough with the Moon, and Kira always had the chance of manifesting, even if she’d not done it so early. The dreams would have soon told me of her fate, but they’d have told me what I already knew.”♠Artist: RubyRedHoodlingAuthor: LupusScintilla (inkandblade)





	The Selected

  


 

 ♠

Stiles found it difficult not to shake. Deaton’s nosebleeds had happened every other day for the last two weeks, but this was the second time today that he’d helped the Electus wipe red from his skin.

Stiles dropped a sodden cloth from his hand and reached for a clean one, but there were none left in the basket. He pressed the inside of his cheeks between his molars to stop himself from groaning, but his shame at not having enough prepared must have shown.

“Don’t blame yourself for that, child.” Deaton’s voice, and judgement, were still as strong as ever, despite the rest of his body beginning to fail.

“I should have had enough washed and ready, though.”

Deaton chuckled. It was a sound that Stiles had not heard before the last few weeks. It was the only good thing about the changes his mentor was going through. “And you would have had them done, as always, if you’d not been tending to my duties as well as your own this last half-Moon.”

He would also have had help to care for Deaton if Allison had lived and Kira had not manifested as a kitsune last summer. More than that, Deaton would have had the choice between the three Prospects that he should. As it was, he was undeniably stuck with Stiles.

Deaton sat forward again with a little difficulty. His face, even through the pain, said that he knew what Stiles was thinking.

“You would have been the one chosen anyway, Stiles. Allison was not strong enough with the Moon, and Kira always had the chance of manifesting, even if she’d not done it so early. The dreams would have soon told me of her fate, but they’d have told me what I already knew.”

Stiles bit at the inside of his lip this time, not caring that it made it obvious he was holding his tongue. He’d never, really, accepted that he would be the one, even if he’d had most of his life to consider it and the last thirteen Moons to know it was definitely going to be him.

This, though, this was not the way things were supposed to go. It was too early — Stiles had not yet seen twenty-three winters, let alone twenty-five — and Deaton had never talked of a mage bleeding for the Old Ones the way he was now. It wasn’t hard to tell that things were far past being called normal.

Deaton wiped at his nose again, dabbing at a tiny trickle that threatened to start the torrent of blood anew. The expectations of the Old Ones had increased so much that Deaton’s magic was no longer strong enough to hold the bond between the Lupidæ Electus and himself and the land, and it was taking a toll on his physical body. Deaton knew it to be the case. Stiles knew it, too. Neither of them voiced the fact, however, and Stiles had kept to the unspoken promise that they would not inform the rest of the village until it was unavoidable.

Tonight was finally the First of the Moon, and Deaton and Peter, his wolf, would go to the Nemeton cottage and perform their offerings to the Old Ones, and it would be obvious to the Lupidæ what had to be done, and that it had to happen soon.

Deaton would not last another Moon cycle. The ritual would have to happen tomorrow, or the next night at the very latest.

Stiles didn’t think he would ever be ready for the Succession. He hoped the wolves, whichever of their three was to become _his_ wolf, were more prepared than he was. He’d at least had the last few weeks of blood as notice, though. They would likely still think there was yet another summer or two before it happened.

Deaton stood and Stiles jumped to help him across the room to his sleeping-platform. “There are only a few more hours until sundown. I’ll rest until then.”

“I’ll bring you some food just before dark, Deaton.” It was a fair walk Deaton would make, alone, and Stiles didn’t want to risk him not having the energy to get there. At least he wouldn’t have to cross the river like his wolf. Stiles bent to collect the bloodied cloths and Deaton’s discarded tunic. There was likely some of it on his own clothes as well. “I’ll have all of this washed and fire dried before then.”

Deaton blinked at him and nodded, then closed his eyes for sleep.

♠

Derek tossed the split log aside and tried not to look directly at Peter as he did so.

His uncle was pacing, as he had been for most of the afternoon. He would stop every few turns of the square and lift his head to the wind and suck in huge lungfuls of air. His forehead would tighten and his fists would clench at his side for a few beats and he’d roll his neck and.

He would eventually turn around, shoulders slumped, and start walking again.

Laura and Boyd had both noticed, also, stopping their own harvesting and watching Peter just as Derek was now. No one else seemed to be bothered by it, though. Isaac was working his way through his half of the wood beside Derek, and Erica and Cora were chatting to each other as they twisted off tomatoes and the such for their baskets.

The fact that every time Peter stopped to clench his fists and roll his neck it was so that he could reign in his claws and teeth was what really had Derek’s attention. His uncle had been doing the pacing thing on and off since last Moon Dark, but his apparent loss of shift-control was an addition new only to today.

Neither Derek, nor Laura or Boyd, the other Electus Prospects, had spoken it aloud, but they all knew they were confused. They knew the Succession shouldn’t be for at least another summer after this one, but there was nothing Derek could imagine but Peter’s human, and their rites, that would make him act this way.

Derek wanted, _needed_ , space to work off his anxiety. He looked at his pile of split-wood. It was larger than Isaac’s, even if Derek had been distracted for the better part of the morning. He could leave the rest for now. Derek sighed and took a few deep breaths and was shocked to find that this time the tang of blood was on the air. Peter must have stabbed himself with a claw. It took a few moments but Laura and Boyd both caught the scent, as well. Derek had no idea why the others with them, or the rest of the village, didn’t notice it, too.

Derek wanted to talk to Laura and Boyd. He wanted to ask them if they’d come to the same conclusions he had. He tried to catch his sister’s, or her best friend’s gaze, but neither of them were having it; they looked hard at the squash they were collecting and very definitely did not look up. He would have to deal with his feelings alone.

“I,” Derek started without knowing exactly what he wanted to say. Isaac stopped, just before swinging his axe again. The young man’s stomach growled and Derek knew what he could do. “I think I’ll fetch us some more rabbits. We’ve enough for tonight's dinner, but it wouldn’t harm us to have more.”

Isaac grunted his assent. “Go on. You’re making me look bad as it is.” He nodded between their respective wood piles, then turned with a hopeful smile. “Rabbit would be good, but fowl would be better?”

Derek smiled back at the quiet request. Isaac could hold his own hunting things that ran, but he’d never been able to catch anything that might also try to fly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

An hour later, Derek hung his three hares and two birds on a branch overhanging the river and stripped off his tunic. He would normally just wash off his hands and jaw after the hunt, but anything that would delay stepping back into the village was currently appealing. He shucked off his shoes and leggings and stepped into the water.

For a moment, Derek thought he caught the scent of _that_ human, the one he often smelled but never seemed to be able to see or hear. The sharp note — male and magic and delicious — was gone in the next breath, however, and replaced with the copper of what he thought might be human blood. There was no one else within earshot, though. He shook his head and looked at what he’d caught for dinner before ducking his whole head under the water.

♠

Stiles slowed so he wouldn’t fall off the sharp bank and into the water. He’d taken a shorter, but less trodden path to the water, ripped one legging and snagged the other on plants that didn’t know they should get out of his way. He’d cursed loudly when it happened, but wasn’t certain who he should blame. It had taken far longer to leave for the river than he’d hoped. Despite the fact that he obviously had a task, given the basket of dirty cloths and clothes he was carrying, half the people in the village seemed to have needed his help with something the very moment they’d laid eyes on him.

Only a well placed sigh on his part, heard by a passing Lydia, and her tutting statement of, “Oh, you don’t want Stiles’ help with that. Let me fetch Scott for you, he’s much stronger!” had allowed him to escape. It was later than he wanted now, but Stiles should still be back to Deaton’s with the cloths clean in good time to get the man dinner, even if nothing would be near to dry unless there was some kind of divine intervention.

His bloody load was nothing if not evidence they’d been short of any kind of divine favor of late, though.

Stiles climbed down the ledge to the water and silently congratulated himself for not spilling any of his cargo as he went. The Old Ones’ anger was the reason he and Deaton had not discussed the situation yet, he thought. The villages, both Lupidæ and Hominæ, had suffered much in the past few years. First, the strange fire that had destroyed half the wolves’ dwellings and killed much of their Alpha family. Then the sickness that had taken a quarter of the humans’ lives, old, young, and in between. Now, Deaton’s body was failing under the weight of the growing power that he channeled, and Stiles suspected that there was more; his mentor had been quiet and even more tight-lipped than usual after the last Moon Pact rites. Stiles had caught him muttering about the health of the tree that shared the land’s magic, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask for details.

Stiles tipped the cloths onto the rocks beside him and squatted to wet the patches of blood on Deaton’s tunic. He rubbed the biggest spot with a little sand and then leaned further to let the river wash away what it could. He almost fell in when he caught sight of the wolf on the other side of the river.

The man — Stiles had no silly nickname for him like he did the other wolves he’d seen — was as gorgeous as always. He appeared from under the water, hair slicked flat, jaw sharp and clean, neck arched and back muscles that looked as hard as the rocks Stiles was sitting on, but rolling and flexing as he moved, like ripples in the river. Stiles held still, willing himself silent and invisible — he didn’t think it possible, really, but it always seemed to work — and watched as the wolf stretched his hands out over his head, then stood up straight in the shallows. The water barely reached his mid thigh.

It barely reached his _bare_ mid-thigh, which meant it was also not covering his bare waist or bare back or bare ass. Water trickled from his head over his shoulders and down past his middle and over the pale skin and through the dark hair that adorned his arms and legs. The wolf twisted in the water, apparently stretching his mid-section, and Stiles was afforded a slight glimpse of the fur on the wolf’s chest and the fuller patch between his legs.

Stiles almost let go of the tunic he was washing but managed to keep hold of it, and also to not topple over as the wolf stepped out of the water fully. Stiles stayed as still as he could. He didn’t want to imagine what an angry lupidæ would look like if he caught a human watching him at his most vulnerable. Stiles knew that the bigots in the village, though most had been taken by the Old Ones in the sickness, would have told him he’d be slain where he stood in a flurry of the wolf’s fangs and claws and vicious noises. Stiles expected that in actuality, there would be an angry shout, possibly bared teeth, and maybe even a shifted wolf-face. Which, honestly? He’d be more fascinated by than scared of at the outset, at least. He’d shit himself later, of course.

Stiles blinked and realized that the wolf had already somehow slid leggings over his thighs and ass, despite both their shapeliness and the fact that they were wet. The man reached for his tunic now, and it slid over his shoulders and waist with ease. He reached up to a branch and brought down a sizeable hunt. Stiles had not noticed it until that moment, and his stomach made a point of announcing that it was not happy about that — he’d not eaten since the morning meal and it was not impressed with either that or his lack of attention to detail. The sound was louder even than it was normally, and the wolf glanced over his shoulder in Stiles’ direction, but didn’t turn around.

Stiles breathed out carefully, counting in for six and out for six, and didn’t look back down to his task until the other man had disappeared into the tree line.

Later, when the cloths were clean and a few of them dry enough for Deaton to tuck into his tunic just in case as he walked off into the darkness towards the Nemeton, Stiles would wonder if the wolf Deaton was meeting, his counterpart Electus, already knew that something was wrong. And if he did, if he was leaving a fireside full of blissfully ignorant villagers, too. Stiles wondered if his own counterparts, the wolf Prospects, were aware that one of them would be taking up the mantle of Lupidæ Electus far sooner than they could have ever imagined.

♠

The sight of the two birds Derek caught had put Isaac into joy and Cora into annoyance — she was the one who would end up plucking them, because if anyone else did it she’d complain they’d missed bits — and Derek had enjoyed hearing their bickering back and forth as he sat with some of the village’s little ones and waited to be called for the First of the Moon dinner. He still had a smile on his own face as he ate what he was given and helped clean up a few of the little pups’ faces.

Derek had no doubt that his expression changed when he saw his uncle, clad in his finest tunic and carrying the Moon offerings, scuttle off into the dark without so much as a farewell. Usually a bevy of small feet followed him to the village boundary, and waved enthusiastically while Peter spouted nonsense at them about his momentous journey for the evening.

No one else seemed to have noticed the change in Peter’s schedule, though, and Derek hoped, as he slipped into the dark and followed along, that nobody would notice him gone, either.

The walk to the Nemeton cottage was short, and Peter didn’t pause even once. Derek heard the other creatures of the forest shy away from the path — Peter’s breathing was loud and his steps even louder — but still wondered why the older man hadn’t realized he was being followed. Perhaps it was simply such a strange idea, that someone would interrupt the Moon Pact rites, and until this night Derek wouldn’t have imagined doing so. Something was very wrong, though, and he had to find out what.

Derek paused as he watched Peter step onto the rope-bridge that crossed the river to the human side. The Nemeton and cottage were farther away from the hominæ village, but they didn’t need to cross water to reach it. The great tree, though Derek had seen it before even if not this closely, looked somehow even more impressive in the light of the Moon. It was stark against the night sky, looking bare of leaves despite it being the middle of summer, and larger than life — branches reaching up higher and out further than a normal tree’s ever could.

Derek dropped flat on his belly and looked out between the long grasses that lined this section of the riverbank and waited. He knew, in theory, what would happen at the cottage; he had practiced the lines with Laura and Boyd and knew the meanings and their history. The actual ceremony, though, was not something anyone but the current Electi would normally be privy to.

Moments after Peter stepped into the space cleared around the large empty cottage, the Hominæ Electus joined him, bowing half at the waist and then wiping at his face as he straightened. There was a moment or two without movement from either Electi, just enough that Derek caught scent of the blood that he thought he’d seen come from the human’s nose.

They greeted each other together, in rote, but still with meaning, “Favor of the Moon be upon you and yours.”

Then Peter huffed. “You should have told me earlier, Deaton.” His voice was tired and shaky and thin, and sounded wrong in the warm, summer air.

“Perhaps,” the other Electus answered, tucking the cloth he’d used to wipe at his face into the gap in the front of his wrap-tunic. “I wasn’t yet certain, however. It happened once or twice before last Moon, but you said nothing about my scent or heartbeat. I thought,” he stepped closer, offering-basket held a little in front of him, as Peter’s was. “I hoped, at least, that it was simply a passing issue.”

Peter lifted his nose, sucking in air loud enough that Derek could hear the action over the distance and the sound of the river moving past. His uncle’s face, the side with the scarring closest to Derek’s vantage, went taut with worry, and then Peter’s head turned away from the human before him and toward the spectre of the tree. He whined and his whole body went tense, and the face of the hominæ echoed the stress.

“It isn’t only you, is it, Deaton?”

Derek was shocked that neither of them heard his answering whimper or growl. The great tree was unwell?

“You know it isn’t, Peter. Your dreams have changed as well, and I suspect it isn’t only me having difficulties.” The human stepped forward, bringing himself out of the shadow of the Nemeton and even in just the Moonlight Derek could see that the man was ill beyond the trickle of blood from his nose. “Come, let us make the offering as we should, even if the Old Ones seem less than impressed with our gifts. We can discuss what we know must happen after.”

Peter nodded and lifted meat, slices of one of the rabbits that had been roasting that afternoon, and placed them at the lips of the human. “We share with you the gift of the hunt, as it is ours to offer freely. We pray that it helps sustain all Hominæ and helps you to stay strong and healthy.” His voice shook with his arm.

The human, Deaton, took the meat from Peter’s fingers with his mouth, chewed long and swallowed well. “We accept your offering and acknowledge that the Lupidæ have a true gift in the hunt.” He lifted a broken chunk of bread from his own basket, freshly baked from the look of its texture and the scent that came across the river. “We offer you the gift of our sowing, as it is ours to share freely. We pray that it may increase the bounty of the Lupidæ, and fill your bellies as it has our own.” His voice was as strong as his body looked weak.

This time it was Peter who delicately took the offered food, with his mouth full of fangs Derek realized, from the fingers of the human. He chewed long and swallowed. “We accept your offering and pray it fills our bellies. We acknowledge that the Hominæ have a true gift in their bounty.”

Both Electi placed their baskets on the ground beside them, and when Peter stood he held a drinking bowl and a small jar of wine. He poured from one to the other, movements smoother now, and drank from one side of the bowl, licking around his fangs as he tilted it. “We share with you this blood of the kill, the manifestation of the magic we share with the water and the land.” He then reached out with the bowl, but instead of handing it over, held tight to it as the human guided it to his own mouth.

Deaton’s knees weakened as he sipped, and Peter dropped the jar so he could steady the man. The sound of the pottery shattering on the ground covered the growl both he and Derek made at the sight. This was what Peter had been pacing about. The Electi were the strongest, in their own way, of each of their kind. But this hominæ was barely standing on his own. He was basically only upright because of Peter’s embrace. He should not be wilting like this, especially as the wine he’d just drank was, Derek thought, only symbolic of the magic in the blood that Peter spoke of. Derek knew that the power the Nemeton shared with the land was real, but to see its effect so starkly was a shock.

Peter lowered his voice, but Derek could still just hear it over the sound of the water. “Do you have enough strength for the rest?”

The other man’s voice was still clear, but no longer as strong as it had been. “I will not fail the Pact tonight.” He straightened himself a little and said, “We accept your offering, and acknowledge that the Lupidæ truly channel the magic of the water and the land.”

Peter’s nostrils flared and then Derek saw lines of black pain that he was pulling from the human. “I won’t let you fall.”

The human lifted his chin and swallowed hard as he conjured a ball of light into the palm of his outstretched hand. Derek knew that some of the hominæ could wield pure magic like this, but he still felt slightly afraid for Peter, so close to someone who could do so much harm.

The Hominæ Electus was not standing on his own at all now, Peter supporting him completely as he spoke. “We share with you the light of the sun and the Moon, the manifestation of the magic we share with the air and the fire.”

Peter moved himself so that Deaton could press the ball of light into his chest. Peter didn’t seem to feel any pain, nor even discomfort. If anything he looked relaxed and grateful as the globe disappeared into him. He answered, “We accept your offering, and acknowledge that the Hominæ truly channel the magic of the air and the fire.”

A moment later and Peter had picked up the human wholly and put him on the sitting log near the empty fire pit in front of the cottage. He then picked up their baskets and pulled out more of the rabbit and the rest of the loaf of bread and handed them to the other man.

“Eat. Do you need water? I can fetch some.”

Deaton tasted a little more of the rabbit, and shook his head. “I will be fine. Now, and soon, if we do what the dreams have been telling us we should.”

Peter sat himself on the log, close enough that he didn’t have to reach far to continue leaching the human’s pain. “Is your Prospect ready? Ours are all of age, and I am almost certain who I will dream of passing the mantle to tonight will not be any different than it has been for the last half-Moon. All three of our Prospects have good control, but one, though not sure of himself, is far better than the other two. He’s stronger and faster in the hunt, also.”

Derek blinked. Peter said _he_ , so Laura wasn’t going to be the next Electus, that was now certain, yet… Boyd had the best control, but was, despite his stealth, a mediocre hunter at best. Derek knew he was the best at that in their village.

Deaton laughed out a small sound. “His skill in the hunt will indeed be needed. As for our Prospect? He may yet be too young for tradition, but he’s only a year or two away from the norm, and he’s far stronger than me or the one who came before me. He manifests accidental and everyday magic well and often enough that once it’s focused by the pairing, he will be considerably more powerful. I’m have not doubt that he’ll be able to do what he has to.”

“And they will have to do more than we ever did.” Peter looked out over the empty fire pit, and if Derek wasn’t so sure that they’d not noticed him, he’d have been convinced that his uncle was staring directly into his eyes. He flattened himself a little more, but not quite enough to lose sight of the pair.

Deaton swallowed the last of the bread and made as if to stand. Peter jumped to his feet to help the human, still pulling his pain, even as the man stood up straight and brushed at his tunic for crumbs. “It will be tomorrow evening, then. Our Prospect knows it is coming, even if we’ve not spoken it aloud.”

“Ours are at least aware that something is not right, so it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.” Peter reached up and cupped the other man’s chin, then leaned in and rubbed their cheeks together on one side and then the other. “I wish you a fast recovery once this is done, my friend.” He bent and picked up both baskets, handing over the one he came with, and keeping the other’s for himself. “Will you make it home alone?”

The human’s voice was strong again. “I will.” He leaned in and returned an exact copy of Peter’s scent-marking. His face seemed neither happy nor distressed when he pulled back. “Tomorrow will change many things. Tonight I will pray that the Old Ones are happy that we are to do what they’ve been sending us in our dreams.”

They stepped apart and bowed to each other in farewell. Derek barely heard them as he stood and turned back towards the village.

“We wish you and yours the favor of the Old Ones, and pledge to meet again at the Moon.”

♠

Stiles had known he shouldn’t, but he’d followed Deaton half-way to the Nemeton cottage, and waited impatiently for the man to return. He was glad now, with one arm under Deaton’s, supporting him for the walk back to the village. Deaton’s aura had faded to almost nothing, the blood from his nose was a constant trickle, and anything more than a shuffling step seemed to cause him a pain that Stiles didn’t think could be eased with a healing draft.

He’d feed his mentor one of those soon, anyway, but at this moment all he could do was concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and praying silently that the Old Ones were satisfied with the punishment they seemed to be giving.

The sounds of song and celebration were loud in the night as they came through the treeline that marked the settlement’s border. Stiles accepted Deaton’s nudge to take him around rather than through; the less the village knew until time came tomorrow, the better.

Stiles assumed it would be tomorrow. Tonight was the First of the Moon, the night they celebrated the relationship between the two peoples. Tomorrow, the High and strongest, was when they’d usually celebrate the victory of the Pact’s continuation within their own village. The following night, the Last, as the Moon began to wane, they would then celebrate in their family units, staying inside their homes and telling the children and each other tales of loved-ones passed over to the land of the dead.

This Moon would not follow the usual pattern, however. Deaton would be lucky to live another few days, let alone another full cycle, if the Succession wasn’t soon. Stiles bent with the older man and laid him on his sleeping-platform again, then stood so he could go to fetch some warm water and the cleaning cloths that should, at least, be dry by now.

“When you come back, Stiles, bring your father. He needs to hear this, too. Tomorrow will be different than you’ve trained for.”

Stiles nodded. The whole village would need to hear it soon enough.

♠

No one seemed to have noticed that Derek had not been part of the First celebrations until now. He sat next to Isaac and smiled at the young man’s enthusiastic singing. It was a few hours before the mid of the night, and the celebration was continuing. Normally it would wind down earlier tonight than tomorrow, but Derek knew that tomorrow would no longer be a usual High of the Moon.

When Peter finally reappeared he’d already stowed his basket and changed into his usual tunic. He walked around the edges of the celebration, pausing to greet those who offered him well wishes, telling them that the hominæ were again one with them and all was well.

He brushed his hand over the back of Laura’s neck, and she stood. He did the same with Boyd and he also followed. Derek, on the other side of the fire, locked eyes with Peter and knew he should go, too. He walked steadily, even as his stomach roiled at the idea of what he’d done that night, that he’d followed the Electus without his knowledge, spied on the Moon Rites that bound the two villages and peoples together. And yet, he couldn’t regret that he had done it.

Peter waited for Derek to catch up, then went in silence with the three of them behind him. He ushered them into his cottage and waited as they arranged themselves on the skins on the floor, as per usual when they were learning what they needed if they were to become the next Electus.

Derek sucked in a hard breath when he realized that one of them was about to do just that.

Peter smiled down at them from where he perched on the edge of his sleeping-platform. His voice was still weaker than it should be. “Favor of the Moon be upon you and yours.”

The three of them answered in kind, “And upon you and yours.”

Peter’s face softened, but his smile didn’t falter, even if his heart did and then the breath he took before he spoke again. “It is time.”

Derek decided not to attempt to feign surprise. He was not usually as open as Laura with his emotions, and beside Boyd anything he showed would seem strong.

None of them, not even Laura, made a sound, however.

“The Hominæ Electus has become sick with the power that he is channeling for us all. I thought him tired at the last Full Moon, but it did not feel an unusual level of tired. Tonight, however…” He pushed the rest of his breath out of his lungs and then pulled it back in slowly. “The Old Ones have, for a reason they have not chosen to share with us, increased the power he is chanelling. He will not live until the next Moon if he continues to carry the burden.”

“Did you not dream it?” Boyd asked. It was a sensible question, and one Derek should have thought to ask but was glad he hadn’t.

“I of course dreamed of the approaching change, and so did Deaton.” Derek had heard the name tonight for the first time, and it seemed strange to hear it here, now, inside their village. “We did not dream of a ceremony full of symbols and words, however. It seems, perhaps, that the Old Ones are no longer happy with what we have been offering them. It is not only the Hominæ Electus who is suffering. His body is weakened, but my control of the shift has been weakening, too. And the Nemeton, which should be full of green and life, has bare branches.”

Laura’s heart, as Derek’s and Boyd’s, was beating far faster than usual as she spoke. “How is that possible, Peter? If the tree is dead, then—”

Peter reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s not dead, I promise.” He rubbed the skin of Laura’s neck and pulled back only when she’d caught her breath. “It is… dormant, languid. I suspect it was happening long before Deaton became so unwell. He normally channels some of the power that is in the land, but now he seems to be taking more of it than he should, as the tree is taking only enough to stay alive. It’s too much for him. More than that, the balance that allows the magic that would normally be here to protect us from accident and plague, has been weak for some time.”

Derek saw that Boyd understood a moment before Laura, but he heard himself say, “Do you think that’s why the fire took so many?”

Peter’s voice was weak, the way it had been when he’d started speaking with the human earlier. “And why the hominæ lost so many to the sickness their village suffered. It may only be easy to see the effects now, but from what we can understand it has been building for the last three or four summers, at least.”

Laura leaned into Derek and wrapped a hand around Boyd’s forearm. “Then what are the new Electi to do to appease the Old Ones, if not what has always been done?”

The three of them watched as the current Electus stood and went to the chest in the corner of the room. The hinges on it squeaked at the use after so many years unattended. Peter lifted the chalice — a strange name for the almost flat, flawlessly white, polished stone drinking bowl, but its name nevertheless — from its place inside the box and when Peter came close, Derek imagined he could smell the wine of rituals past upon it.

“The most recent dreams the Old Ones shared with Deaton and I have been entirely clear. The new Electi will take the place of the current by not simply symbolising the original rites, but by reenacting them.”

Derek, like his companions, took a sharp breath at the pronouncement. They knew the stories of the original rites, but to reproduce them… The air in the cottage seemed thicker somehow as the three of them, who’d sat here together for so many hours over so many years, waited to see which of them the Old One’s had deemed suitable to the task.

Peter stood before them now, eyes shining bright blue in the low light, the sounds of the Moon celebration outside muted by the anticipation they all felt. He twisted slightly where he stood and from the corner of his eye Derek saw Laura and Boyd smile. Peter lifted the chalice with both hands.

“May you serve both the Lupidæ and the Hominæ well, Electus Derek. The Pact is now yours to guard and serve.”

♠

The sunlight was weak, but the morning was slowly warming the horizon and Stiles watched as it licked over the headdress he’d be wearing before the day was out.

This evening he would walk to the cottage in something close to the full ceremonial regalia his ancestors had used in an attempt to please the Old Ones in the times before the Pact had been made. Then, before the Pact, humans had known magic and had some control over it, but had not been able to bend it to their will as they did now. They had relied mostly on the power of air and fire, but had lacked a connection with earth and water, so any attempt at focusing their magics fully had been close to futile. They’d lived and bred filthy and afraid of the river. They and their throngs of children survived hand to mouth, dressed in the skins of the small animals they could catch, and eating only whatever the forest had allowed them to harvest. It had not been much.

Wolves had, of course, been the opposite. They had no magic but their shift, and despite good links to the earth and water, they’d had less than a tenuous grasp on the other elements. They lived mostly in their four-legged form, hunting as animals did and eating meat raw from the bone. They would huddle together for warmth when the weather turned cold, and die if the winter lasted longer than it should, as they did not understand to prepare for the change in the wind and sky. They conceived best in their two-legged form, and so rarely had children. Those pups that were born generally did not survive.

A chance meeting of Hominæ and Lupidæ beneath the Nemeton, or perhaps a meeting planned by the tree and the Old Ones and the Moon together, had changed everything. One of the hominæ had gone to the tree to curry favor with his magic, and one of the lupidæ had thought to offer his kill for the same, and that fateful night their meeting had shown them what they could do for each other, and the Old Ones had smiled on them all. The Pact had been created with a rite that the pair had somehow known to do.

Stiles looked at the goods Deaton had presented him with. Under the headdress were the skins Stiles would wrap himself in, and next to it the berries and oil he would grind together to make the paste to mark his forehead with an image of the Moon reaching down to them all. There were ear-cuffs and chains and other things to make him even shinier in the night so that the wolf would see him and know which way to come. It was an absurd collection, but Stiles would be proud to wear it, and would not think of leaving any of it behind; there was too much at risk.

At dusk he would leave the village, all eyes turned upon him as he stepped over the boundary and walked away from them all. He would meet the new Lupidæ Electus, the one who would become his wolf, and they would share the Moon gifts as only one pair of Electi had before.

Hopefully the Old Ones would smile on them all again once the sun rose afresh on the morrow.

♠

Dusk was coming. Derek stretched his arms high and rolled his shoulders and let the beta-shift take over his face. He lifted his nose and read as much as he could from the air around him. At his side, his own scent was strong from the shoes, tunic, and leggings that he’d just stripped from his body. The presence of the village and his pack were strong behind him, and if Derek closed his eyes he could detect the notes of several animals and plants that carried on the air from different parts of the forest.

Derek knew that the Succession, the passing of the old knowledge and responsibility from one Electi to the next had begun last night, moments after he’d taken the chalice from Peter’s hands. In that instant Derek had felt nothing, though, nothing more than the pounding of his own heart at the reality that he was the Lupidæ’s best hope, the anxiety at the idea of meeting the chosen hominæ and being at the mercy of the human stranger’s magic. He hadn’t noticed anything unexpected until hours later, after Laura and Boyd had congratulated him, and the villagers had each come forward to swipe a hand over his shoulders, to offer their scent as comfort and strength and support. Only once the pups had been sent to bed and elders had wished him well and Cora and Isaac had both hugged him tight, only then had Derek begun to realize that something was different.

Last night he could, on one breath, not just smell those near him, but scent each separate person in the Pack. He could hear that many of the adults were celebrating the night more privately now that their little ones had gone to sleep, that Peter was pacing back and forth across the soft furs that lined the floor of his cottage, that a fox had crept close to the big firewood stack looking for mice, and that a mouse was climbing higher amongst it to stay safe from the fox.

Derek had nearly stumbled in place when he realized that he could hear a mouse in the firewood stack at the farthest point in the village from where he was then standing.

His awareness of scents began to increase even further as he was readying himself for sleep. As he placed the chalice carefully next to his cot, he could smell not only the old wine on it, but also Peter’s scent, and what Derek thought must be Deaton’s, from the _one time_ they’d drunk from it years before. And, when he woke and went to the woodpile in the bright of the morning to work off some of the energy he could feel swirling under his skin, he’d swung his axe so hard that he’d cleaved not only the length he was aiming for, but also put a fatal split through the platform he was working on.

Today, standing naked but for the pouch strapped flat to his back to keep the chalice safe, Derek could hear and smell and see all that he had before this moment, and everything else. It was all the same, but more. What he experienced from all around him, from scents of the river and the forest, to the feeling of small stones and grasses that pressed in along the sides and bottom of his feet, was enhanced.

The sun was dipping lower, nudging past the horizon and making way for the Moon to rise and the night to come alive. Derek felt the wolf inside begin to stir, and dug his claws into his hands to put stay to the urge to shift completely. He couldn’t, he _mustn’t_. The ritual should be done on two legs, not four, even if hunting would be easier with nimble paws between him and the forest floor instead of clumsy feet.

When the first ray of Moonlight hit Derek’s skin he threw back his head and howled welcome. As his fangs dropped and the claws on his feet extended to match those on his hands and he began to run, Derek heard his uncle and sisters wish him luck and control.

Then, he caught scent of what he wanted and he could hear nothing but the heartbeats ahead of him.

♠

Stiles had grown into his limbs with age, and he would be glad, given the chance, to thank the Old Ones for the developed stability as he took step after step closer to the Nemeton cottage. The night was bright with the Moon, but the path to the Nemeton was not often used, and the way was hemmed in by thick trees and grasses. A thousand unwanted images — himself stumbling into bushes and losing the headdress or the furs or cutting himself so badly he couldn’t heal the blood away — flowed through Stiles’ mind, and he sucked in a full breath of the still, dark air, and pushed the ideas out of his head as he exhaled.

He understood that he couldn’t wear shoes tonight for the same reason that he was wearing skins around his shoulders and torso and not much more than a loin cloth on the lower half of his body. His feet, however, were not happy with his decision to remain as faithful as he could to the original stories. It was not a comfortable walk, especially when he couldn’t well see just where he was putting his toes. There were some bruises blooming in the arches of his feet, and at first he had felt the sting of a few small cuts around his heels, but now…

His magic had decided that it, at least, did not want to stay faithful to the stories of the Pact’s beginning. Stiles no longer felt anything but an echo of soft grass beneath his feet, despite the path being as hard and worn as it had been in the first few minutes walk towards the cottage. It wasn’t the first time his magic had stepped in to make his life easier, but usually it was only at moments of great stress or fear that he felt it come unbidden. When his mother lay dying from the wasting sickness, he’d taken her pain from her, and later from his father’s heart when she’d finally passed over. And, as Stiles had believed the stories he’d heard as a child and had feared for his life near the river the first time he’d seen a wolf on the other side, it had hidden him from her. That first woman, and every lupidæ since, never seemed to see or hear him from across the water, though he had seen them lift their noses in his direction, as if they knew someone must be near.

Stiles’ magic had always been stronger than Deaton’s, but right now it was even deeper and more focused, and Stiles expected that it would be easier to turn to his own devices when he had the chance.

He gripped the pouch containing the marking-berries tightly and focused, again, on imagining the pattern he’d trace on his face once he reached the clearing. He’d done it a thousand times with water and mud and soup and whatever else he could find at the time to practice with, of course. He could do it without a looking glass, with either hand, and as he and Allison and Kira had practiced when they were younger, he could also do it hanging upside down in a tree, Lydia and Jackson passing silent judgment at their antics, Danny laughing, and Scott enraptured because it was either Kira or Allison that week that he felt he couldn’t live without.

This evening Kira had kissed Stiles on the forehead before he’d left, as had Lydia. His dad and Scott and Danny had hugged him, and even Jackson had pulled him into a half-hug-half-chest-bump thing that left Stiles feeling more light headed than any of the other attention. Jackson did not, unless you were Lydia, show affection. Ever.

He’d wanted to tell them all that it would be fine, that he’d be back before the dawn, that he’d get all the hugs he’d need from the wolf he was to meet — the lupidæ were reportedly very tactile — but… There was the chance that the Lupidæ Electus might not be able to regain control of his wolfself tonight, or Stiles might not be able to keep command of his magic.

The night might not end as it was planned.

Stiles pushed a branch out of the way and in three more steps was out in the open and caught his breath. The Nemeton stood stark against the sky and the cottage beneath it appeared otherworldly in the not-darkness. The clearing around it was wide, far wider than a normal, lived-in cottage would have. It might have managed to appear welcoming in the day, but the space was eerie in the sharp, white Moonlight.

He took cautious steps, ears now focused on any sign that he was not alone, eyes becoming used to what they could pick out around him. The ground was soft underfoot, evenly covered with what looked like dark green clover from the treeline to the walls of the cottage. The fire-pit in front of the cottage was empty, despite the sitting-logs set around it and the large firewood pile he could see stacked up against one wall of the building. The night air remained unnaturally still as he moved across to the front door of the cottage.

Inside, its three spaces — two sleeping partitions and one larger area for the rest of life — were like any other cottage he’d been into in his life. The sleeping platforms, both small and large, looked abandoned without blankets and skins to cover them, and the cooking utensils and shelves and other ephemera of life looked strangely caught in time. They were unused, but not new. Everything was cared for and clean, the walls in good repair and the hard-packed floors swept bare, and it seemed strange and yet just as he’d always imagined it would be.

Deaton had told him that no one knew, as far back as he could tell, why the cottage had been built in the clearing beneath the tree. Stiles had an idea, one that was growing in his mind, but he wasn’t certain, and he wouldn’t speak it aloud. Even if there was no witness right now except the great tree.

Stiles opened the pouch with the berries and bowl and began to crush them with his fingers. He poured in a small amount of oil and watched as it took on the red color of the fruit. He did not know how much time he had before his counterpart arrived, but before they did he needed to mark his face to honor the Moon as the light of the Old Ones.

The Moon rites were always the same steps, in the same order, remembering the gifts that the two peoples had shared with each other for the first time. Tonight, though a reenactment, would follow its own order. Stiles should be ready for whatever may happen. First he’d paint his face, then he’d use his Spark to set aflame what was possibly the first fire that had ever burned in the pit outside.

Then he would wait. He would welcome the wolf whoever it was, no matter that he hoped beyond hope that it was a certain one he’d not a day past seen again at the river.

♠

The herd had turned and run as fast as they could when they’d finally smelled Derek approaching. The largest bull had eventually stood his ground tall and strong, protecting passage to the others, and then some of the younger, slightly smaller bulls had joined him. Derek had waited, watching, until one decided he’d take his chances and attacked. The challenger had done well. But, once Derek had tired the bull a little and the damage he’d sustained from it’s antlers had begun to heal, the end had come fairly quickly for the young male. His cry of anguish was extinguished by Derek’s roar of victory.

The taste of fresh blood in Derek’s mouth was exhilarating, and so was what he saw when he stepped back to take in his kill. Though not the largest moose from the herd, it was still the biggest Derek had ever seen slaughtered, and its size and strength and magnificence should do well to impress the hominæ he would present it to.

It had taken several attempts to heft the animal across his shoulders to carry it, but once it was balanced, Derek turned his face to the Moon and thanked her with a howl. He felt good with his eyes ablaze and his claws and fangs wet with blood. He licked the red off his lips then started back towards the river and the Nemeton and the human he knew would be waiting for him.

♠

Stiles fed more split logs into the flames and with them gave another round of silent thanks to the Old Ones for his Spark and how well it had behaved. He’d smiled wide when it had danced effortlessly on his fingertips, not too small to be useful and not too large to be anything but dangerous. It had caught the dry wood he’d arranged in the firepit with ease, and now, washed with the glow of the firelight, the whole clearing looked different, warm and inviting. He could almost imagine the place inhabited for more than just a handful of moments every Moon.

He smiled again and felt the drying berry markings on his forehead pull at his skin. He resisted scratching at them, and did not even consider removing the furs from his sweaty shoulders. He hoped that the rumor about wolves liking the scent of each other was true, as his own smell had to be creeping close to pungent.

It was difficult to tell the passing of time without the bustle of his village’s normal evening rituals going on around him, so he wasn’t certain how long he’d been waiting. The Moon seemed to be climbing high far more slowly than usual, and he imagined She was watching with careful eyes, waiting to see if he and the Lupidæ Electus would succeed or fail in their tasks.

It was with that thought in his mind that he heard a roar, and then a howl like he’d never experienced. He’d heard wolves calling before, of course, they hunted together on the solstices and Stiles, along with everyone else he knew, enjoyed listening to their cries of victory carrying across the flats and over the river. They’d listen while they held their own celebration, trying to see if they could distinguish different voices.

This voice was different. It was wholly triumphal and full and powerful, and more than those things, it was close. The forest out behind the Nemeton and on the other side of the river agreed; all other sounds seemed to die in an instant. Stiles could hear only the crackling of the fire he’d built and a gentle wind in the tops of the trees for several long, careful breaths. And then there were footfalls on the other side of the river and the creaking of the rope-bridge under the weight of something far, far more than it would usually bear.

Stiles stood up straight and stepped away from the fire and was glad of the long, careful breaths he’d only just taken as he thought perhaps he’d currently lost the ability to breathe.

He wasn’t sure what was more magnificent, the beast that had been lain carefully before him, or the one that had placed the giant moose there.

The man, the Lupidæ, was not wearing his human face. Though Stiles had seen many of the wolves from the other side of the river, this was something he’d never witnessed. Deaton had warned him, shown him the old drawings that previous Electi had made, talked to him about the way the Lupidæ’s features shifted beneath the skin and the reach of their claws and the glint of the fangs in their mouths.

The wolf was everything that Stiles had been warned of as a child, and Stiles should probably feel fear. No one had told him how strikingly beautiful a lupidæ in the this form was to behold, though.

The man was still except for his nostrils widening and the slow rise and fall of his chest in time. Stiles could not look away from the crimson of the wolf’s eyes.

This was a man, that was plain to see, not just from his stance and his wide chest and the shape of his jaw. His claws and teeth and the fur on the sides of his face began to fade away under Stiles’ gaze, but the pronounced jut of his cock did not falter. He took in a what looked to be a deep, deliberate breath, and if anything his cock grew as it twitched against his abdomen.

Stiles, breathing hard with his hands pressed flat against his side lest he clench them into fists, dragged his eyes back up and watched as the last of the Lupidæ’s transformation from wolf to human took place. The man’s eyes faded from red to something difficult to distinguish at their current distance and only in the light from the Moon and the fire. It was, however, simple for Stiles to know that this was the same person as he’d seen at the river the day before, the one he’d never been able to give a nickname.

Stiles had never given him a silly name because nothing could ever describe the man’s absolute perfection. This close, that description seemed more apt, even if the man’s hands and torso were covered in blood from the kill he’d just laid between them. It was lucky, Stiles supposed, that it wasn’t up to him to begin the dialogue they were to share. He looked into the wolf’s eyes a moment longer, then at the enormous bull he’d been presented with, and tried, with every ounce of effort he could muster, to show on his face just how in awe he was.

♠

The hominæ looked impressed at the kill, Derek thought, and the wolf in his blood was calmed by the fact that he’d likely passed what could be seen as a test. The human also smelled impressed, and, Derek’s shift-strengthened nose assured him, aroused. Whether it was at the sight of the prey or the naked man before him, Derek wasn’t certain. Humans were not known for their blood lust, however, so it was likely the latter. It was a sweet and tart aroma, like the fruits that grew by the river after they’d been heated with honey. It smelled better coming from the man than it ever did coming from a bowl, though. It was also familiar.

It didn’t surprise Derek that he’d smelled the tangy aroma of this man before — their villages shared the same stretch of river — but it did surprise him that he hadn’t seen the human’s face until tonight. This was the human Derek had feared because he’d never quite known if someone was there. The man’s magics must be powerful if he could hide so well. Derek didn’t know if he wanted to run away or forward. Another breath decided it, and he flexed his fingers and shifted his hands back to wolf so that he didn’t give in to the urge to cover the distance between them and bury his nose in the hominæ’s neck. He noted the way the man tried not to look at the claws as they extended.

There was a question there. Did the human want to look out of alarm, or out of curiosity? Derek hoped it was not fear.

The night was warm, and the heat from the fire that the human had built made it even more so. The movement of the flames reflected off the ornaments in the hominæ’s headpiece and made the man’s eyes appear to glow. Derek moved slowly, now. He used a claw to slice through the harness that held the chalice in the small of his back and drew it around his body. He kneeled beside the prey he’d killed, only taking his eyes off the human for the moment it took to use another claw to pierce the moose’s throat skin to fill the bowl with blood.

He lifted the offering to his lips and sipped, fangs pushing at his gums again at the taste of fresh blood, then stood to proffer it over the beast’s body.

“I am Derek. I share with you this blood of the kill, the manifestation of the magic all Lupidæ share with the water and the land.”

This ritual would be different in order, but the same in meaning, as all those that had happened between the first and this night. The human did not move from his place near the fire until Derek spoke the last word, then he reached out with gloved hands, and accepted the chalice.

The human licked his lips once he too had sipped.

“I am Stiles. I accept your offering, and acknowledge that the Lupidæ truly channel the magic of the water and the land.”

The man’s voice was as rich as the color of his eyes and as deep as the fae-marks on his skin. He put the chalice carefully down on the ground, then slipped off his gloves and flicked them to the side without looking. He stepped backwards and Derek saw, for the second time in his life, magic so blatant that it sent a shiver up his spine. The hominæ extended one arm, hand flat with palm up. At first he created a ball of light in his hand, as the other human had done, but this time, _this_ human, also called flame from the fire beside him into the light. The ball grew larger and Derek hoped that the wave of dread he felt did not show in his eyes even as he flashed them red again.

If the human could see Derek’s fright, it didn’t show. The man’s voice was calm and steady.

“I share with you, Derek, the light of the sun and the Moon, the manifestation of the magic all Hominæ share with the air and the fire.”

Derek started the words he had to, “I acc—” but stopped. He didn’t think he could take what was being given. “I acknowledge your offering, Stiles. The Hominæ truly channel the magic of the air and the fire.” He winced at his own words, and could not stop himself leaning back a little as the human brought the light and flame around to his front.  
  
♠

Stiles heard the man falter, and then watched the big, strong wolf in front of him flinch at the sight of the ball of fire coming closer and could not believe he hadn’t thought to consider that all of the Lupidæ, especially those from the Alpha family which this man obviously was, had good reason to fear flame.

If Stiles could he would snuff the magic out, but the Old Ones would likely not be impressed with a misstep of that size in the ritual, so he simply made the offering smaller and dropped his voice as if that might mean no one but they themselves could hear. Stiles needed to have Derek accept the magic made tangible. It was important, not just for this part of the rites, but to help smooth along the next.

Stiles breathed in the night air and thought about the space he was in and how it related to the moment. He was closer to the Nemeton than he’d ever been, but felt no threat from it. He was closer to a wolf than he’d ever been, and all he wanted was to be even closer. He felt more powerful than he did usually, and yet also more in control. He had no fear of losing hold over his magics, something that the lupidæ could quite rightly be worried over. Stiles took another breath and realized that, despite the nerves and worries that he’d had before the Moon rose, now he was calm and ready.

The understanding gave him confidence.

“It will not hurt you, Derek. I promise.” He lifted his other hand and moved those fingers slowly through the small ball of light. There was of course, heat, but as it was his own magic he felt only that. “My skin is the same as yours,” if not more delicate, he thought but did not say, “and the fire does not burn me. It is warm, and it will feel new to you as you’ve not touched raw magic before, but it would not harm you unless I wanted it to.”

The wolf tore his eyes from it and blinked, and the red was gone from them again. He looked at Stiles’ chest, and Stiles thought at first it was the furs Derek was seeking some kind of truth from, but then realized that the wolf wanted to hear his heart. Even with his better hearing it was likely difficult through the layers of animal — and more importantly the old magics they were imbued with — that were wrapped around Stiles’ upper body.

Stiles waved the ball of light to the side a moment and let it hang in the air as he scrambled out of the ceremonial skins. He put them, and the headdress, on the sitting log beside him, far more carefully than he had treated his own gloves, then turned back. He was being watched with wide, but not wolf, eyes. Stiles took hold of the light again and with it close to his own chest he said a little louder, “I do not want my magic to hurt you, Derek of the Lupidæ, so it will not. I pledge you this.”

The wolf stepped sideways and then forward around his kill, all the time his eyes flicking between the ball of light and Stiles’ face. The Lupidæ still looked strong and wild, even if he moved more like the hunted than the hunter. The blood on his torso and arms seemed incongruous with the concern in his eyes, and his cock had faded from full and ready to something far less willing.

Stiles held as still as he could as Derek stepped closer. The wolf’s face was completely human but the flare of his nostrils made him look anything but. Stiles tried to think of all the positive things this night could bring, in the hope that they would show in his eyes. “I promise it will not hurt. If anything it will feel good.” Magic passed from one to another held the intentions of the giver within the energy, and so felt, or sometimes almost tasted, the way that person was feeling.

Stiles felt hopeful and excited, but also full of concern for this great hulk of a man with childlike eyes. At the same time, though, there was lust at the knowledge of what they would soon do together. Stiles held the ball of light out, just a little further, and Derek came a little closer. The wolf drew in a great breath, then slowly reached out a hand, then one finger, and poked at the light. He gasped out, “Oh,” and his eyes went even wider and his pupils stretched out, too.

“See, Derek. It will not hurt you. _I_ will not hurt you.”

♠

The rush of emotion from just one brush at the magic was enough that Derek might have fallen over if he’d not braced himself. Though the passing of the magic into his own flesh was what he’d always feared the most, and the addition of fire to the process had turned trepidation to outright terror, he now felt nothing negative. If that was what it felt like with only the tip of his finger exposed, Derek could barely conceive of what it would feel like at full contact. He knew what was expected of him tonight, and possibly every time he would meet with the other Electus.

He wanted.

He took Stiles’ wrist gently, guiding the human’s hand to his chest and heard himself say the words fully this time. “I accept your offering, Stiles of the Hominæ, and acknowledge that you truly channel the magics of the air and the fire.”

Stiles’ eyes softened and he smiled again and from one moment to the next the magic was tethered to him and then it was not. It rolled off his fingers and brushed Derek’s chest and then—

The magic entering his body was like nothing Derek had ever felt before. It was stranger than the first time he’d experienced the shift, and more intense than when he and Laura had felt the Alpha sparks of their parents and grandparents pass into them after the fire. It felt more forceful than frightening, and it felt good. There was a physical warmth, but also an emotional one. It was as if the human’s scent had burrowed itself into Derek’s chest and spread through his blood to the far reaches of his body.

It was a revelation to experience how hopeful this human truly was. Derek could also feel a kind of concern that was probably about getting the ritual right, and a caring one would usually only associate with members of one’s family. It all melted into Derek’s flesh with the light and he felt at once more at ease than he had for days. Above the comfort, though, there was a scent that told Derek that Stiles found his body attractive, and in the magic-light there was the same truth — it set Derek’s blood pumping stronger and faster and in moments his cock was harder than it had been when he’d smelled this human properly for the first time earlier.

He couldn’t resist; he leaned into the touch of the human’s hand against his flesh and felt long fingers curl against his chest, but not push back.

The air around Stiles was sweet with arousal, but beneath it there was the sharp bite of his magic and the unmistakable, musky layer of male and hard and Derek felt his fangs drop again. He tilted his head back, just, so that he could show the hominæ his wolf and make the same promises that had been made to him.

“My fangs and eyes and claws may look fierce, but we do not only show our wolfself when we are fighting and hunting.” Derek let the beta-shift take more of his face, and then the rest of his body. There was a slight note of caution in Stiles’ scent now, but it was mostly curiosity. The wonder in his eyes was, Derek suspected, akin to the look he himself had likely had when he’d seen the magic-light so close to his own body. “You can touch, if you wish.”

“I…” The word was barely there, and Stiles didn’t try to say anything more. He moved only the hand he already had on Derek’s skin, slipping it higher, through the hair on Derek’s chest and over the bulge of the muscles in his shoulders.

Derek took half a moment to realize that there was a complete stranger, a _human_ , touching his throat. No one had done that, not even his sisters, since his mother had died. He felt himself lean into the touch and roll his neck to feel more. The magic had shown Derek so much of the man before him. It was strange to trust so quickly, but it would be stranger, now that he’d felt what he’d felt, to not do so.

Stiles’ palm was warm and softer than Derek expected it to be. He dragged it up and over Derek’s chin, and then unfortunately off of Derek’s face. Half a moment later, though, he ran just the tips of his fingers over the fur in front of Derek’s ear. He traced the movement with his eyes, apparently enjoying watching the hair bend to his touch, then looked into the red of Derek’s as he asked, “When else do you shift then, if not only when you’re fighting or hunting?” He twisted his body, just, and Derek could feel that Stiles too, beneath the rough loin cloth he was wearing, was hard.

Derek had known, and so obviously had Stiles, that tonight they would give their bodies to each other, as the first Electi had. And Derek had hoped that the Old Ones would be kind, that the pretty, zesty scent he’d never quite caught fully down by the river would belong to the human tasked with delivering the Hominæ’s gifts. The Old Ones had answered Derek’s silent plea, and it gave him hope. This was the man that scent had belonged to, and he was here, hard cock pressed against Derek’s thigh, smelling as if he’d take as soon as give, as long as it was them together.

The smell in his nose, and the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat gave him more than hope. Emboldened, he turned his head and, fangs still descended and eyes still blazing, nipped at the human’s fingertips. Stiles gasped, and a fresh rush of scent filled Derek’s lungs; Stiles’ cock was not just hard, but also wet and ready. Derek could almost taste it in the air. He caught one of Stiles’ fingers between his teeth and licked, then sucked, and enjoyed the way the man’s breathing became heavier.

He barely moved his mouth away to say, “We shift to hunt and to fight and when we’re ready to mate.”

♠

Coming from the mouth of another hominæ, such a statement might have seemed crude. From Derek’s lips though, it only seemed straightforward. Perhaps it was simply that they were almost in each other’s arms, and at such close quarters words and meanings might morph into something other than they were in everyday conversation. That, and there had been licking. Licking was not unexpected at some point in the proceedings, but starting with it seemed almost too good to be true. Stiles had long liked the idea of licking.

Derek’s nostrils flared again. His voice was lower now, some of his wolfself rasping through as he said, “Is it my words that you like, or my actions, Stiles of the Hominæ?”

Stiles swallowed and wondered exactly what Derek’s nose could discern at such close quarters. “It’s both. You speak plainly, which I have always appreciated, and your,” he wet his lips, “ministrations are very definitely enjoyable. Your tongue is talented either way.”

“And you are not afraid of my fangs.” Derek’s face smoothed back out, leaving just his eyes wolf-red as he tilted his chin back again. “Make the next offering, Electus Stiles, and I will show you that I can do more with my tongue.”

Stiles did not let himself dwell on that for more than half a moment, despite the wondrous images it began to form in his mind. There was no need to imagine when it was likely it was about to happen. He summoned his best serious-voice and spoke the words with even more ease than he’d felt with the first recitation.

“I offer you the gift of my sowing, as it is mine to share freely. I pray that it may increase the bounty of the Lupidæ, and fill your belly well.”

In the next moment Derek had slid to his knees and used a claw to slit down the side of the loin cloth Stiles was wearing. Stiles almost didn’t think to catch the pouch — and the precious oil within — that still hung at his waist. He did though, and as he caught it in his hand Derek caught him with his mouth.

Stiles almost toppled backwards with the shock of such pleasure. The sensation of a hot, wet tongue on his cock was something he’d dreamed of frequently, but the life of an Electus Prospect was not one that allowed for the kind of experimentation or play that he knew had gone on between the others around his age in the village.

Derek had one strong arm behind Stiles’ thighs and the other wrapped over the jut of Stiles’ hip, steading himself as he, quite skillfully Stiles thought, lapped at the wetness at Stiles’ cock-head.

Stiles looked down and wondered aloud, “Have you—” Derek flicked his tongue under Stiles’ foreskin and Stiles caught his breath. “Before, Derek, have you?”

Derek tilted his whole head sideways so he could drag his tongue down Stiles’ shaft and then looked up and said, “No. We were not allowed. Were you?”

Derek breathed out hard and the way it felt against the now wet skin of Stiles’ cock sent a shiver up his spine. Stiles decided if Derek could put his mouth where he had, Stiles could put his hands on Derek’s head, so reached forward and buried his fingers into hair that was as soft as it had appeared.

“No, I’ve never, Derek. But you seem to know what to do more than I would.”

Derek looked happy at the praise, no matter how vague. He pressed one side of his face, stubble rough but not unpleasant, against the flat of where Stiles’ thigh met his body, and sighed aloud. “It is no skill for me to taste what smells good. That, and knowing what I think might feel pleasing if it were done to me, is all my knowledge of what we are to do with each other, I swear.”

“I have—” Stiles gasped when Derek pushed his face forward, lapping lower this time. “I have knowledge from the whispers of those more experienced to think about, and a vial of oil I was instructed by a friend was most important to remember.” Derek sucked one of Stiles' balls into his mouth and Stiles went weak at the knees, only kept upright by the wolf. “If you continue that, Derek, the seed I’ll be offering will indeed fill your belly, but not in the way I believe we are supposed to attempt.”

Derek withdrew from his task, but did not move his face from Stiles’ skin until he’d breathed in several more times, and, Stiles realized only as he could now see one hand, pulled in the claws that had again unsheathed.

“I would be happy to receive it either way.” Derek rubbed his face over Stiles’ hip this time, slowly and purposefully, watching Stiles’ watch him as he did it. Then, with more careful words and eyelashes lowered he said, “I would give, too, even if it’s not what is expected of us tonight?”

Stiles could not see any reason, whatsoever, to deny that he would likely also enjoy that. “We will please the Old Ones tonight, I’m certain. Then, as time goes on, we’ll have the chance to please each other again and again if we so choose. I would choose to do anything and everything that we could.”

“That is,” Derek pulled Stiles closer, licking out again but barely touching the hot, taut skin of Stiles’ cock. “That is good.” There was a glint in his eye that Stiles thought made him even more attractive. “If there is only one thing that I know for certain of mating, it’s that neither of us will last more than a few moments at first try.” Holding tight to Stiles’ thighs still, Derek shuffled on his knees so that he was now directly in front, and kept Stiles’ gaze in his as he said, “So, fill my belly, Electus.”

Stiles groaned and held on as tight as he dared as Derek opened his mouth and throat and swallowed all he could. The heat and pressure and suction was everything Stiles’ had ever imagined but so much better. Derek barely lifted his head two or three times before Stiles came, hips stuttering and knees finally buckling completely out from under him. He folded down, eyes almost closed but aware enough to see the way Derek licked at his lips and did not seem averse to what he was tasting.

Stiles, holding on tight still to any part of Derek that he could, took several long moments to catch his breath.

Derek smiled at him and smoothed back hair from his forehead. “I hope the Old Ones are as pleased as you look and smell.”

Stiles let himself laugh. “I hope that I can please you so well. I will try my—”

Derek dove forward now, and the last sound Stiles was to make disappeared between them, and in them, as their lips touched. Stiles had kissed before, it was one of those things that even an Electus Prospect could play at, and it was apparent that the Lupidæ thought the same way. Derek was accomplished with his tongue in ways that Stiles hoped he’d be able to feel again and again. He sank into the wolf’s embrace, hungry to take as much as he was given, happy to offer it back in kind, reveling in the fact that he could taste what had already passed between them.

Stiles wanted to continue kissing like they were, long and soft and languid, but there was also a growing need, low in his belly, even so soon after he’d come. He wanted to give what he’d just received and he thought, with a nibble and a tug at Derek’s lower lip, that he could explore his way down with his mouth. He started, licking and nipping from where he was to the wolf’s jaw and then. It struck him that, despite being offered it before, supposing that he could put his teeth anywhere near an alpha’s neck without explicit consent was not a sensible assumption, at all.

“You can touch my throat again.” Derek’s words were a rumble in his chest. “No other may, but if we are to share this, then you can. Your bite would not easily mark me, and even if you were to make me bleed it would heal within minutes.”

Stiles stilled at that thought. “I would not want to hurt you, Derek. Would you,” he paused a moment, hoping that his understanding wasn’t completely wrong. “Would you want me to mark you?”

“I, I think I would like you to try.”

Stiles couldn’t think of a way to answer that, so he kissed Derek again, a little harder than before, then set about attempting some of those marks. He kissed and licked at Derek’s mouth again, then moved onto his chin and down over the edge of his jaw, and marvelled at the tiny thrusts he could feel Derek making. The wolf’s hips were flexing, pelvis rolling again and again, pushing his hard cock into Stiles’ skin. The thrusts were harder when Stiles dragged his teeth down Derek’s throat. He was rewarded with the feeling of a small, wet spurt against his skin when he bit down into the meat of Derek’s shoulder.

Stiles lapped at where his teeth found purchase and Derek made a rumbling noise deep down in his chest. Stiles bit-down again, and leaned in to it. Derek folded back a little on his knees and Stiles used the change in angle to take hold of Derek’s cock. It was thick and long and hot in his hand, familiar and completely new at the same time. He stroked down, enjoying the way Derek’s foreskin moved with his wrist, and feeling very satisfied with the way Derek’s breath came harder and faster at the movement. He stroked up and down and found a slow, steady rhythm.

Stiles fumbled with his other hand — unwilling to release the patch of Derek’s skin he had under his mouth — and eventually found the little capped-jug of oil that was still, thankfully, mostly full. He sucked hard into Derek’s shoulder, and Derek thrust harder, and Stiles didn’t want to sit back, but he did.

“Lie back for me?”

Derek nodded and complied, legs stretched out and elbows bent with forearms along the ground to keep him from being completely flat. Stiles leaned forward across the expanse of Derek’s body, one arm out straight to hold himself up as he took another kiss. He sat back and took Derek’s cock in hand again and decided that they’d have to wait for more bites. Derek was hard and looked so wet in the firelight and if he was anything like Stiles he wouldn’t last much longer.

Stiles showed Derek the oil jug and uncapped it, watching as Derek’s nostrils flared again, and then the wolf lifted one of his legs so it was bent at the knee.

“You have,” Stiles started, unsure of how to ask if Derek had explored himself with his own fingers. Stiles had, but it wasn’t something one usually discussed.

“Yes.”

The oil was cool on Stiles’ fingers as he poured it, but it warmed quickly in his hand. He used it to cup Derek’s balls then added a little more and traced the tip of his finger around Derek’s hole. Stiles leaned in for another kiss, happily accepting Derek’s tongue into his mouth at the same time he pressed his slick finger into Derek’s ass. Derek moaned into his mouth, and Stiles felt it as the wolf’s fangs dropped.

Derek rolled his head back and Stiles took the opportunity to bite again, licking and scraping as he thrust his finger inside Derek.

“More,” Derek growled. Stiles wasn’t certain if he meant fingers or biting or something else. He let go of Derek’s shoulder, slid down the wolf’s body and tried to swallow Derek’s cock as he pressed a second, oiled digit inside.

Derek was far, far louder than Stiles when he came. Stiles sucked and licked and twisted his fingers as he twisted his mouth up and off.

Derek was on his back now, flat against the clover, eyes shut tight and claws buried in the ground. His chest rose and fell in the warm firelight, and Stiles remembered how cold the space had seemed when he’d first walked into it tonight. It was far, far from that now.

Derek’s voice was rough, and the sounds he made were thick around his fangs. “You were worried you would not please me, Stiles. You pleased me.”

He stretched his arms above his head and opened his eyes, now faded back to human-looking.

♠

It took Derek a few moments to focus. The human looked pleased with himself, as he should be, and ready for more. Stiles’ eyes were almost glowing with the color of the fire, and the skin on his face and neck was rough-red from the kisses they’d shared.

Derek clenched around the fingers that were still inside him, and Stiles’ cock twitched where it was lying against his thigh. Derek wondered, for a moment, if they could do this like this — face to face with their chests pressed together and their mouths sharing the same air — but knew it wasn’t safe. He’d barely managed to keep his claws away from the human’s delicate skin, and it would be more intense with the man inside him. Perhaps, in the future, they could manage it, but tonight the air was thick with magic and the shift was becoming harder and harder to control.

Derek pushed himself up on his elbows again, then flipped himself over and presented. He looked over his shoulder.

“I accept your offering and pray it fills my belly, Stiles. I acknowledge that the Hominæ have a true gift in your bounty.”

Stiles opened his mouth as if to speak, but decided against it and instead reached for the oil again. It seemed colder this time as three fingers slid inside. Derek pushed back against them, and let himself rock into the intrusion as Stiles twisted his hand a few times.

It was better, far more intense, than Derek had imagined it would be.

He braced himself as the fingers disappeared and heard Stiles stroke himself with more of the oil and then there it was, pressing into him. The stretch was impossible for a moment and then it was done, and Derek pushed up off his elbows and pressed his palms into the soft green carpet. A moment passed, and then another, and he realized Stiles was waiting for permission.

Derek looked over his shoulder, and had barely managed to say, “Please,” when Stiles started thrusting in earnest.

His rhythm was uneven and movements not smooth, but Derek could not fault how it felt. He realized his claws were back and assumed that his eyes and face and everything else would also have changed. The pleasure was different to what he’d felt in Stiles’ mouth. He felt so full, stretched wide and bare, but also something close to complete.

The earth beneath his knees and his hands seemed warmer than it had, and the soft rush of the river filled his ears alongside the sounds of Stiles’ panting and their flesh colliding. The air grew thicker and the fire hotter, the Nemeton taller, and the Moon suddenly felt closer and brighter than it ever had before. Their thighs were pressed together and the hair on them snagged and seemed to try to catch and keep them close.

The elements, the Nemeton, the Moon, their own bodies, all were working to make two into one.

“Do you feel it?”

Stiles’ voice was rough and rich, and his fingers dug deep into the flesh of Derek’s sides.

“I feel it.”

His voice sounded far away, but still his own.

Stiles leaned in, his sweat-slick chest fitting along Derek’s back, his slightly taller frame meaning that he could hook his chin over Derek’s shoulder. He was rolling his hips now, finally finding a flow that worked. Derek’s cock was again hard, swaying beneath him, full and ready. He gasped and then growled in pleasure as Stiles took hold of it and began to pump at the same pace as he thrust.

“I won’t last much longer, Derek.”

The hot slide of Stiles’ mouth moved the length of Derek’s shoulder and then he was biting again, almost hard enough to break the skin. Stiles spent himself with a cry and Derek came a few moments later, howling again to the Moon.

A few breaths later and Derek realized that all strength had gone from his limbs. He pitched forward, Stiles following him even as they separated. Derek rolled over and looked up at the stars. The night was nowhere near done, but Derek was, and if the human’s panting was anything to go by he was, too.

Derek felt the man beside him moving, and lifted his head to see, not just feel, the way Stiles laid his body as close as he could. Derek watched as Stiles slipped their hands together. It was strange, but right.

There were a few more moments of silence and then.

“Do you think the Old Ones are satisfied, Derek of the Lupidæ? I most certainly am.”

Derek surprised himself with the laughter that rose in his throat. Stiles smiled at him, and Derek felt the laughter replaced by warmth in his chest.

♠

Stiles’ face was warm, but so were his arms and his legs and his toes. He opened his eyes and then shut them again quickly. The sun was far brighter than it ought to be. He breathed in and smelled something mouthwatering, but didn’t know if he could manage to sit up to investigate.

He stretched an arm over his face to scrub at his eyes and felt the muscles in his back protest at the movement. His body would not forget last night easily.

After they’d done what the ritual demanded of them, Stiles had taken a bucket from the cottage to the river to fetch water so they could drink and wash, and Derek had lifted the beast he’d killed so he could hang it from the tree so it could be butchered properly later.

Stiles had discovered bread and fruit and other things in a basket he knew belonged to Deaton next to the river. Derek had found skins and blankets in a bundle behind the cottage that smelled like they’d been left by Peter.

They’d slept beside each other, pressed up against each other, beneath the stars and Moon, and their dreams had been visited by—

Stiles sat up, the light blanket that had been covering him sliding one way as he wobbled the other.

“Good morning, Electus.”

Derek seemed to be holding in laughter, which was not something he should ever do, as far as Stiles was concerned. He’d only heard it once before, but it was a beautiful, comforting sound, and it should not be hidden.

“Good morning, to you, too, Electus.”

Derek leaned forward, arm outstretched, and Stiles realized that there was meat, fresh and hot, in between the other man’s fingers.

“I share with you the gift of the hunt, Stiles, as it is mine to offer freely. I pray that it helps sustain all Hominæ and helps you to stay strong and healthy.”

Derek’s voice was calm and his hand steady.

Stiles took the meat from Derek’s fingers with his mouth. It was as rich in taste as it smelled. He licked his lips and his wolf looked pleased.

“I accept your offering and acknowledge that the Lupidæ have a true gift in the hunt.” That was, Stiles realized, the last of the rites. He felt different, but not overly changed. He looked at the bowl in Derek’s hand, one of those from the basket. There was more of the delicious meat in it, and bread, and cheese. Stiles’ stomach growled.

Derek’s smile was as bright as the sun. “There is more meat, but I think we should wait to cook it.” He broke off a piece of bread and offered it to Stiles, and Stiles accepted it without comment.

He chewed, and tried to process what he knew he’d seen in the dreams they’d shared. He turned and looked at the cottage as he swallowed. It looked the same as yesterday, but so different than it had in the dream.

When he faced Derek again, he could see that the wolf, too, was different than the dream had shown him; they’d been older in it, the cottage lived in, their families had been sitting around the fire-pit where they were now eating breakfast.

Stiles wiped at his lip with the back of his hand.

“We’re not going home, are we?”

Derek leaned forward, cupping Stiles' chin and pulling him closer. He dragged his nose up the side of Stiles’ face and Stiles shivered at the touch and the sound of Derek breathing him in.

“We are home.”

 

♠♠♠

**Author's Note:**

> The original artwork for this fic can be found **[here](http://rubyredhoodling.tumblr.com/post/175473438201/srb-the-selected)** , on [RubyRedHoodling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/pseuds/Rubyredhoodling)’s [tumblr](http://rubyredhoodling.tumblr.com/). Please go and show the artist some love; without the pic there would be no fic!
> 
> Thanks to [staringatthetwinsuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaringAtTheTwinSuns/pseuds/StaringAtTheTwinSuns) for her beta work. She's never afraid to step out of her own fandom and into mine to help. If you find any mistakes, they're entirely mine. If you find a typo, please let me know in the comments, or hit me up with a [message on tumblr](https://inkandblade.tumblr.com/) if you'd prefer. The same thing goes for if you would like to suggest a tag.
> 
> Thanks to the mods/organizers of this years' [Sterek Reverse Bang](https://sterekreversebang.tumblr.com/). You can find more fic on that tumblr or in the [AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/sterekreversebang2018) as it is posted. 
> 
> If you like this fic, please hit that kudos button, write a comment if you're comfortable, or simply click on my name and see if I've written anything else that takes your fancy: I’ve got pieces from 100 words to more than 100K. I am horrendous at answering comments with anything but 'thank you' — it scares the hell out of me — but I appreciate every single one!
> 
> Also, I’m [inkandblade](https://inkandblade.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for Sterek/fandom, and [inkandconsider](https://inkandconsider.tumblr.com/) for other stuff (both of these, especially the first, are NSFW).  
> edit: Thank you, notvirginawoolf, for the typo help!


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